


Fight or Flight

by cyan13



Series: An_Origin's_Change [4]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Origin SMP
Genre: AU, Family Dynamics, Growing Wings, Mild Blood, Origin Smp - Freeform, Other, Random OCs - Freeform, au can be confusing, i might have gone over board on word count, i really need to make a time line for this thing-, no beta we go down like my brain, phil is a bug of sorts, winged!phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 05:49:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30050868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyan13/pseuds/cyan13
Summary: it was supposed to be a simple run into the village for some stuff, he didn't think it would even with his family on the run...
Relationships: Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: An_Origin's_Change [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2190999
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	Fight or Flight

**Author's Note:**

> WELCOME BACK TO THE ORIGIN CHANGE AND IM YOU HOST, CYAN-
> 
> in this, we see a father gain his wings and a family basically lose it all in a matter of hours...

"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown." -H.P. Lovecraft

* * *

Going to the market was a normal thing for the young father of two, never thought it would end in pain.

It was more of a retreat than anything else, a chance to get out of the farmhouse and venture into the village. To take in what was happening with everyone. 

To get away from his seventeen-year-old and nine-year-old sons, both a handful on a good day, outright hard to deal with on a bad day. It had taken a while for the man to come to terms with the fact that neither of his sons was ever going to be normal. 

And that was just fine with Philza Craft. 

The village sat on the cliffs near the sea, standing tall and proud in the salty air. Houses dotted the landscape of the large clearing. Paths went here and there. Some lead outside the village to homes and farms. One led to his small farmhouse a good hours walk away.

Usually, this was the time when he had to either sell eggs or barter with the people running the stalls, trying to get better prices on fruits and meats. Sometimes it was over cloth or even medicine for the boys and himself. Or he went out to help the locals with odd jobs to get a bit more money.

That day, however, he had to go buy some fruit and some more cloth. The boys had grown out of their old clothes and with their odd features, well, he couldn’t just give Tommy Wilbur’s hand-me-downs anymore. 

The village was abuzz with people, bustling about from stalls to stalls. The man could see children running about, laughing as they zoomed about. Phil wishes he could see Tommy doing that again, but the blond knew that would not be for a long time. 

"Mr. Craft!" Exclaimed a young woman behind a stall, waving at him. "It’s so good to see you. How have you been? The boys?" 

Phil smiled at her, coming to stand in front of the table. The table was covered in baskets of fruits and berries, prices placed all around the place. He could see apples, peaches, blueberries, and so many more. 

The woman had a pale blue headband over her head, pushing back her long strands of red hair. She was short, about Phil's height, and was lanky. Most likely from working so hard in her orchard. 

"Hello, Mrs. Annie," he said with a smile, reaching up to gently set down his basket on the edge of the table. "I’ve been good, same with the boys. How have you been?" 

She gave a smile. "Oh I've been well, keeping myself busy," said the redhead. "You want your usual?" 

He gave a nod before glancing around the rest of the stalls. He could see old Ms. Opal selling bread with her granddaughter a few booths down from where he stood. Mr. Kyle sold his wooden plates and bowls not far from there.

He listens to Annie hum slightly as she fixes a basket full of fruit to trade for a handful of coins. A fair trade considering that he was buying about five pounds of food for his family. 

There was a slight pain in his back, one he rolled his shoulder at. It persists, growing and almost feeling like it was moving across his back. 

"Mr. Craft, you alright?" A hand landed on his shoulder, knocking him from his thoughts. 

Beside him, looking at him with a worried look, was a bearded man. The man had dark blond hair, boarding brown. He wore a green plaid jacket, a bag thrown over his shoulder. There was an ax on his side, worn from cutting wood. 

"Oh, yeah I'm good," he said, smiling weakly, trying to annoy the growing pain in his back. 

"Hello Mr. Oliver," said the voice Annie behind him. "You here for your apples?" 

The man nodded, glancing once more at Phil before taking his hand off his shoulder. Phil watched as they chatted for a bit as the young lady finished grabbing what the father needed. 

He started to space out, focusing on the throbbing pain in his back. Maybe he should have had Tommy or Wilbur deal with the garden that morning. The pain was most likely from bending over and pulling weeds. 

It seemed to keep growing by the minute, his mind trying to focus back on what the two were saying. 

The pain spiked and then it was like the dam had been broken. 

It was like his back was a sheet of paper being ripped in half like the ground had cracked open from the earthquake of pain. 

His world was a glow of white, pain taking over his mind. Phil could faintly hear voices asking if he was ok, could faintly hear screams of terror, of fear. 

He could feel something growing from his back, could feel hot white pain. It was more painful than when he had broken a leg when he was younger. Worse than falling from the cliff when he was younger, landing on a small beach with a broken limb. Waiting for his father or mother or anyone to find him. 

He could remember the look of horror his father had on his face when he discovered the blond teen. Could remember him telling Phil to stay still and wait for him.

It had taken a few hours before the teen could get out with the help of his father and others from the village. 

The look of relief sat on the villager’s faces, happy the teen was ok.

This was nothing like that day.

When the world had flowed back to normal, the flare of pain had turned to a dull throb. 

He laid on his stomach, face buried in the dirt path. Phil could hear muttering behind him. 

Something brushed against his arms, making the man jump. Pushing himself onto his knees, he looked around. People were standing around him in a circle, keeping their distance. 

It was Oliver that stepped forward, ax held tightly in his hand. The bearded man looked on edge like he was given a hard choice. 

By the time Phil had gotten to his knees, he had noticed a cloak of sorts laying heavily on his back. It looked like it was made of scales almost, though it looked odd. Not like the skin of a fish nor snake. From what he could see, it was dark gray, borderline black. If he were to spread them, he would have seen the large dot near the bottom. 

Two dots in the shape of a heart.

The lumberjack stood before him, frowning. "Your one of them, aren't you?" 

"One of what?" 

"One of those-those monsters!" Exclaimed the dirty blond, eyes wide as he gestured wildly at Phil with his ax. "You know the stories. Of monsters hiding among humans, trying to act normal until they can’t hide any longer. Your one of them." 

Phil looked around at the gathering crowd, seeing looks of disdain, fear, or anger. Some of them had weapons drawn, he could see a young lady holding a bow, arrow loaded and ready to be drawn back. The man could see a look of fear on the girl’s face.

“Do your boys know that you’re a monster?” It was Annie who asked, standing beside Old Ms. Opal and the woman’s granddaughter, the small teen looking scared and on the verge of tears. When Phil didn’t answer, the once kind-faced young woman had a look on her features. “They’re like you then, that’s why they haven’t shown up in the past few years.”

Someone shuffled on the other side of the circle of people. “Then there more monsters,” said an older man, sneering at the man on the ground. “We should just burn them all to the ground, get rid of whatever disease is infecting that family.”

Then Ms. Opal looked over at the man. “You want to wipe out a whole family? The last of the Craft family?”

“If it means keeping our loved ones safe I would kill them in a heartbeat.”

Oliver looked over the group, looking everyone in the eye. “Then it’s settled, we take them out.”

Phil had heard enough, his nerves on edge as he listened to the group. They were talking about hurting his sons, that would not go, not with the blond. Hurt Phil all they wanted, hurt his sons and he would let that stand.

Without really thinking, the man stood up and bolted, making the group of people part, letting out a gasp. All the man could think about was getting away from the village, to get to his sons. To get to Wilbur and Tommy, to protect his family. 

It was the sound of an arrow being released from its drawback, something flying through the air. He heard it before he felt it, the projectile hitting into the back of his leg. 

He stumbled, pain erupting from his knee. Glancing back, he saw the end of a green feathered arrow sticking out from the back of his leg, the young girl from before lowering her bow with a sorrowful look on her face. Others were grabbing weapons and coming towards him, quickly at that.

And like his mind was running off instinct, he grabbed the end of the arrow and being quick, snapped the end off. It would not do him any good to try and take out the arrowhead, no telling what kind of tip the girl had on the projectile. 

Before he realized what he had done, it was like a switch had flipped within his mind, and he had pushed off the ground, the broken arrow falling to the ground as he lifted himself. 

Flying was not what he thought it would be. 

Growing up, Phil always wondered what it was like to fly like a bird, always was captivated by how the honey bees would buzz about. How the bats in the caves flew in the air, gliding like a leaf to the ground

This feeling made him realize he didn’t even know how to fly, only running off of what his brain was telling him. And that with either to stay back and fight or fly himself home quickly. The latter of the two had won in the end.

Flying above the trees, a pit grew in his stomach. The world from above the pines and oaks and birch, towering over the ground. It was a world he never thought he would ever get to see, a world above where he had once walked to even reach the village not even an hour before. 

Or was it longer than that? He had no clue.

Soon, he was starting to glide a bit lower to the trees, and panic settled in his chest. Flying was not something he was taught growing up, he was taught to use a sword and fight off mobs.

Not how flight works. 

Without thinking, he flapped the odd wings on his back, propelling higher over the tree line. 

With that extra push, he could see the farmhouse from the air, could faintly hear the sound of the chickens out in the yard, could see the worn roof from storms and rainfall, snow and ice. 

He smiled, realizing he had gotten home before the angry mob and gotten through the woodland path that led to his home. To the place where he once thought he could protect his boys, where he had raised them. 

Their home that he was about to have uprooted quickly if they were going to survive. 

Now, how the hell does he land?

Turns out, it wasn’t the best of landings. 

He fumbles when he hits the ground, trying to brace himself with his knees and hands. The broken bit of arrow still lodged in his knee screamed in protest at the action. It felt worse than when he had gotten hit by the wooden projectile in the first place, like burning coals against his skin.

  
  


The crash seemed to have alerted his sons, as the sound of footsteps reached his ears as he tried to stand. A golden helmet stuck out the door, seemingly looking around. Phil could see a knife floating in the air as the man stood up, trying not to put weight on his bad leg.

“Dad?” said a voice from the helmet. The door opened wider and a head of blond hair stuck out from the door frame. “Are you ok? I didn’t think you would be back until later. What happened? Is that blood?”

He brushed off his pants, giving the floating helmet a weak smile. “Something happened,” Phil told him, trying to hide the wings on his back. He didn’t want to worry his boys, not with the new wings on his back. He still didn’t know where they had come from, besides the pain that was now a dull throb by then. “And just a bit of a scratch, nothing to worry about son.”

“ARE THOSE WINGS?” it was Tommy who asked, throwing open the door and bolting over and circling his father. Feathers went flying from the motion. “THEY LOOK SO COOL, CAN YOU FLY? CAN YOU FLY ME AROUND, LIKE IN THE SKY? THAT WOULD BE AWESOME! WOULD YOU-” 

“Tommy, breath son,” said Phil, placing his hand on the short boy’s shoulder. “I guess they are, and they might have gotten us all in trouble. We need to talk inside, come on.”

Entering the house, he locked the door before turning to see the floating helmet turned into a transparent teenager, wispy blue ears almost trailed off before Wilbur’s curly brown hair that stuck out below the worn helmet. Bright hazel eyes blinking at the man, as he almost glided over the floor with a wispy tail of where his legs would have been. There was a rib-like cage over his yellow sweater and a blue cloak the same color as his ears falling from the teen’s arms and back.

Jumping around next to the teen, was Tommy. The short blond was flapping his arms like wings around, trying to almost get higher. Whenever he would land, his now-grown talon-like feet had click-clacked on the hardwood flooring. Feathers stuck out from behind his ears

“So what’s going on dad?” Wilbur asked as Phil closed the door. “What are you doing home so early? And when did you get wings?”

“In the village when I was buying fruits,” he stated simply. “And now the village is trying to hunt me down, and by that, I mean all of us.”

Tommy grabbed Phil’s arms, slightly taloned fingers biting into his skin. “They want to kill us don’t they?” It sounded wrong coming from the nine-year-old, knowing that people might kill him if given the chance. Even being so young, the blond had always been bright, always picked up on things that people never really outright said. “What are we going to do?” 

He ran his fingers through the boy’s hair, frowning. “I think we need to run, to be honest. It’s not safe here anymore, not with the village coming to try and… and kill us,” he said mournfully. Phil looked up at Wilbur, who was holding his middle, frowning. “Wil, can you help your brother pack a bag, and make sure you do the same, ok? Just some clothes, nothing that can weigh you down.”

The blond felt a pull on his arm again, and looking down, saw big blue eyes that mirrored his own looking at him. “Can I bring Henry?” 

Ah, the stuffed cow the boy brought with him almost anywhere. The last thing his mother had given him before she had passed when the boy was two before he even really knew her. The cow was the only thing he had of her besides the stories Phil and Wilbur would tell him.

With a nod, he watched as Tommy grinned before reaching out and grabbing his brother's arm, pulling the teen up the stairs. Wilbur looked back at Phil with worried fill hazel eyes, which his father just smiled slightly at him.

While the boys were upstairs, the man was quick to grab a bag from the hall closet, along with a spare sword Phil kept there. The blade felt heavy in his hand, foreign almost to him. Phil had not had to wield a sword since before Tommy was born, back when the village was still having problems with mobs during the night. 

Shaking that thought from his mind, Phil hobbled himself to the kitchen and started to put food in the bag; the last of their apples, the loaf bread Wilbur had baked last week, and the bit of preserved meats he had been keeping for the winter. 

Looks like it would be needed now, however.

Before he knew it, the sound of feet stomping down the stairs caught his attention. 

Tommy had a rucksack strapped over his back, safely keeping his feathers from being stuck. He held a ragged brown and white cow plush to his chest, grinning up at his father. 

Floating behind him, was Wilbur. The teen held a messenger bag, holding the strap nervously in his hand. In his other hand was an older bag that Phil thought might have belonged to his wife at one point or another. 

"I think I saw people coming down the trail," Wilbur told him, floating a few feet into the air. The blond thought that if he still had corral legs like he did when his change just happened, he would be shifting like he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar again. 

"Then we need to go," he said, glancing at a few pictures that hung on the walls around them. "We can take the back trails. Wilbur do you still have your knife?" 

The teen nodded, pulling out the golden blade from his belt loop. It was a bit warped from what Phil could see, bent in a few places. A knick here and there.

There was a crash outside, causing the small family to tense. “Wilbur get your brother and go to the path, and keep quiet,” he instructed, glancing at the door. Phil could hear voices outside, the villagers seemed to have arrived. “Keep each other safe, ok? I’ll come to find you as soon as I can.”

“We’ll meet you at Niki’s cove", said the teen before slipping his helmet from his bag and placing it on his head. Wilbur grabbed Tommy’s feathered arm, before slowly turning invisible. “Be careful, Dad.”

“Byebye Dad,” said Tommy, waving his free hand at Phil before getting pulled along by Wilbur to the back door.

When he was sure the boys were out of the house, Phil thought about what he was going to do. It was not like he could go out and fight the villagers, not with his leg messed up as it was. 

Then he heard shouting. 

“Come on out, Phil,” said one of the villagers, holding a sword in hand. "You have nowhere to hide. We can just end this quickly if you surrender your family." 

"Your right," he yelled through the door at the crowd, glancing at his sword. His mind was racing with thoughts, trying to think of a plan. Then he saw his old flint and steel by the fireplace, looking up at him. "But I promised their mother I would protect the boys. And that's what I plan on doing." 

There were more sounds of crashes, screeches of the chickens alerting the man that they had broken into the barn. A loud moo sounded, seeming their old milk cow had gotten hurt from the sound.

The fire starter was in his hand, quickly sparking a flame against the wooden furniture and curtains. Smoke was quick to circulate the room, which he tried to sniffle a cough, trying to continue to set the home he was raised in, the home he raised his sons in, ablaze. 

He watched as pictures caught fire, memories going along with it. Phil was sure he could hear people shouting from outside, maybe the smoke was leaking from an open window. He had no clue. 

When he was sure the crowd was distracted with the fire starting to swallow the farmhouse, he used the wall to guide him to the backdoor. 

The man needed to get to his boys. 

He was able to get actual air into his lungs when he stumbled out. the house, using his sword almost like a cane to keep him on his feet, the bag held over his shoulder, hand still holding on tightly to the flint and steel. Mind racing with hoping, hoping that his sons had made it to the coast. 

The woods were the quiet, faint sound of yelling and shouting fading in the background. 

The trail was well worn, mostly from Wilbur and Tommy taking it to the little cove by the ocean. Sometimes used by Phil to hunt, sometimes a place Tommy would run about to use up his extra energy. Where Wilbur would bring out food and clean water down to Niki, the girl stuck in the ocean for the past few years. 

He faintly wondered if he would ever walk down this path again, would ever go hunting down this part of the forest. Would ever walk the boys run down the path again. 

His mind was so wrapped up in his thinking, the limping man never realized he had made it to the cove. 

It wasn't anything special, just a cove. Well, more of an inlet than anything. Over the years, little trinkets and knick-knacks would show up every once in and while. There was a shell garland hanging from a few trees, surrounding the water. Farther near the trees was a pile of ragged blankets that looked like a bed. A little voice in his mind told him that was where Wilbur stayed when he stayed out too long hanging out with Niki.

In front of him was the boys, standing by the shore. A lump of sorts stuck out from the water, where Wilbur was talking with them. 

Using his sword, he hobbled himself over, seeing the lump was the face of a teenage girl. 

Her hair had algae, giving it a pink color, cut short to her chin. Fins were sticking out from the side of her head, a rose-colored fin like a fish. 

Tommy was the first one to notice him, smiling when he saw his father hobble over. He still held onto his cow named Henry. 

His oldest son was still talking away with his friend, floating a bit over the sandy ground. "Are you sure you're not low on anything? Water maybe?" 

The girl gave a soft laugh. "I'm fine Wil," said the girl's airly voice. Her eyes looked over at the blond man as he came over, giving a small smile, before frowning. "You alright, Mr. Craft?" 

"Besides the fact I think we're now all on the run?" He gave a weak chuckle as he sat on the ground, leg thanking him from losing the pain somewhat. His wings brushed against the ground, and he winced at the feeling. "I'm fine Niki. How are you?" 

"Horrified? Scared?" She threw her hands out of the water, waving them wildly while keeping her gills below the waterline. Phil noticed her fingers were webbed, to help the teen propel herself under the water. "What are you three going to do?" 

"I think we're going North, near the coast at least, " he said, glancing at the kids. "Down by the ports a few months ago I heard about a village.

that is a safe place for people like, well, us. I thought about moving up near there next spring but-" 

"But we all look like this now," said the small voice of Tommy, who had sat himself down beside his father. "Do you think there are other kids there?" 

They all knew Tommy was bored, having not been able to play with anyone but his brother, father, and Niki. The nine-year-old grew tired of it all it would seem. 

He wrapped his arm over his son's shoulder, smiling slightly at him. "I'm sure there will be kids your age," he glanced at the two teens in front of him. "But for now, I'm more concerned about making sure you all stay safe."

He saw the teens look at each other before nodding at Phil. 

"We can head out during the night, use that as a cover," he did them all. "Take a nap, rest. We'll need to move quickly when it gets dark." 

Tommy nodded, before hurrying to his feet, and grabbed Wilbur's hand. The teen sighed, smiling at his brother before the almost transparent brunet picked up the nine-year-old. 

Niki giggled before diving back below the water, leaving only a small amount of bubbles in her wake. 

"You get some rest too, dad," Wilbur told him, as Tommy yawned, placing his little head on the brunet shoulder. "You're not as young as you once were, old man." 

Phil laughed, waving off his son. The teen grinned, before taking himself and Tommy over to a small bed of old blankets.

When he was sure all the kids were out of earshot, the blond-haired man gently touched his knee. The pain flared at the movement, stabbing almost. 

Realistically he knew that he should get the arrowhead from the now reopened wound. Knew he could see a healer, or better yet, get Niki or Wilbur to help him. 

He just didn't want to worry his sons, didn't want Wilbur to start fretting about him like when he had the flu not long ago. Like when Tommy had started growing in wings or his feet had turned to talons. 

Taking a deep breath and holding it, he felt the wound. It was definitely on the back of his knee, though not right in the middle. Which was lucky for Phil, meaning hopefully his joint was not messed up.

He found the end of the arrow he had broken off, feeling the jagged edge. It would be simple just to pull out the arrow, to rip part of his pants, and use it as a makeshift bandage. 

With a glance over at the boys. He found them both seemed to be asleep, dead to the world for the time being. Phil would have to be quick if he wanted to get the arrowhead from his leg. 

Phil took another breath and just ripped it out, biting his free hand, trying to muffle his yell of pain. He would be lying when he said he didn’t cry. But he would have to deal with that in a bit because he needed to wrap his leg before he bleeds out.

He used a but of his pants, ripping it off and tying it tightly around his knee, cutting off the blood from falling. 

It would have to do until they could either see a healer who didn’t care for his wings or the sight of one feathered son. Or the almost ghostly appearance of his other son. 

Until then?

Well, he would just have to do. A little pain never hurt anyone, and this would be nothing compared to what his family would face on the long road ahead.

* * *

By morning, the cove was empty, no sign that any of the four had been there. 

By morning, the farmhouse was nothing but a charcoal shell.

The village had just run out of the Craft Family, a father, and his two sons. No sign of any of them was found the next day or the next, or any after that. It was like they had never been there before. The only thing that showed that they had been there in the first place?

An old mailbox by the woods, a wooden sign reading “Craft’s” on the side. 

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a little riddle for the next part-
> 
> look back on ancient Greece, at the goddess of war and her battle of crafts-
> 
> ~~~  
> My tumblr is [sunflower-named-cyan ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/sunflower-named-cyan) if you wanna ask questions or anything really.


End file.
